Creative Writing is a Marathon, Not a Sprint

There's nothing like a marathon on a wind-swept mountain to get the creative juices flowing. A few weeks ago, I completed The Black Mountain Marathon, a straight uphill race that then turns sharply downhill halfway through and pounds you until your knees and quads scream for mercy.

I had trained for this race for months. Although, I was always skeptical that my training was not going to prepare me, I pressed on in pursuit of a simple goal: Race the race. You know you won't be first, and pray you won't be last.

I am happy to have finished the race near the back of the middle, and not even close to last. But the most ecstatic moment of the whole experience was the next morning when I just had to wake up early and write my race report. Nothing stood between me and writing. The words flowed right out of me, the imagery was poetic, and the story was all my own. I HAD to tell the tale, and I couldn't be stopped or interrupted.

That kind of drive to write is true inspiration and the kind that had not been striking recently. I took hold of the reins of my running and writing muse and kept typing until my hands felt a bit like my brutalized legs. And when everything was on paper, I re-read and revised. I tweaked and adjusted. I made sure that every word was just so.

And, as I finalized my work, I thanked my sore legs that had reminded me that writing is a long distance race. It may happen in fits and starts, but it truly expresses itself over the long haul. Thank you, Black Mountain.

Here is my race report:

I am writing this report looking out the window of a cabin with a gorgeous view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Yesterday I was cursing those steep climbs, but they are so stunning that I couldn't stay mad at them very long.

The Black Mountain Marathon was my first marathon. I know it may not be the most traditional way to start a foray into longer distance running, but I am very glad I chose this race. The views were stellar, the wind was gusting at over 50 miles an hour, and my hands were frozen solid for most of the ascent. After this, my next race on flat land will feel less daunting.

The racers gathered at 7am on Cherry Street, right in the middle of downtown Black Mountain. After a very brief race update, the race director yelled "Go!" The marathoners and Mt. Mitchell Challenge racers all started the race together. Grit and I ran together for a mile or two as we wound through the roads of Black Mountain and up into the town of Montreat. Lots of local people were out cheering, ringing cow bells, and rolling their eyes at the huge wall of runners taking up the street. Shortly, Grit pulled ahead of me as we turned onto the double-track trail leading straight up the mountain.

After 4 miles of rough and rocky trail, I pulled into the first aid station. It had the usual foods and drinks, but it did make me miss the flavor and energy of Trailhead aid stations. After a brief stop to grab a bite to eat, up the trail I went. Up and up, to the Old Toll Road. Although it once allowed for vehicle traffic up and around Black Mountain, it is now a sunken road with jutting rocks and a lot of twists and turns. The steepness and ice in the shaded areas encouraged me to take it easy and hike many portions. At the next aid station, the wind really seemed to pick up. Only a few more miles to the Blue Ridge Parkway and turn around they said. On I climbed.

Soon, returning marathoners and one crazy Mt. Mitchell Challenge runner started to make their way down. As my hands lost all sensation, I pushed on just to keep my body warm. As I approached the Parkway, it felt like I was literally inside a cloud. The mist and grayness hung low and the Parkway was closed to traffic due to snow and ice. At the turn around aid station, my hands were so frozen that a I had to ask a very nice fire fighter to help me open my calorie gel. After some Tang, gel, and a handful of M&Ms, I turned back down the trail. The promise of easy downhill running egged me onwards.

The downhill miles melted away. I hit my 3rd wind as I roared through the gale-force winds. As my hands slowly thawed out, I was encouraged to keep up a strong pace just to reach warmer air and lower wind. On the downhill, I passed a few people who passed me on the way up. We chatted, waved, and I pushed on. The Old Toll Road now felt warm and welcoming. I enjoyed the fabulous panoramic views of the mountains and even felt some bounce in my step.

Time fast forwarded until I reached the last aid station before the steep descent back into town. Only 5 miles to the finish. I knew I could do it. And then the trail got very, very, very steep. As I picked my way downwards, my legs complained. My ankles whined, and my hips protested. After sliding off the trail, there was more downhill on asphalt. This section was brutal in a way I had never experienced before. Slowly meandering into town seemed to take an eternity. "Three more miles!" a happy onlooker encouraged me. I wished for time to fast forward again, but it did not.

As I continued along the Montreat Greenway, I was slightly refreshed. It runs along a raging creek and features a soft and clear single-track trail. It was the closest thing to Carolina North I had seen all day and I imagined that many of my running friends were there with me telling off-color jokes and talking about fabulous adventures. I turned off the trail and back onto a few side streets in search of Lake Tomahawk. As I approached the lake, I could hear the announcers at the finish. Right there at the final turn were my friends from Cary, and Doug,Spore, and Adra. They cheered as I trotted past. Only a half mile left. Doug jumped onto the trail near the finish to run me in. Finished right at 6 hours. Not first, but not last. And, that's all I wanted to accomplish for my first marathon.

This race tested my resolve, but showed me a view of the mountains I could not have seen anywhere else.